1951 - But a Short Time to Live Page 11

  "We have three sheets they sent in as samples," Doris said, who knew her stock. "Shall I work on it right away?"

  "Rather," Harry said excitedly. "Scrap the rest of them. When you've got it in the enlarger, call me. We must get the exposure exactly right. I don't want to waste a sheet that size."

  "I'll make a strip test," Doris said. "It'll be all right."

  Harry knew he could leave the enlargement safely to her, and he returned to the office where Mooney was dozing.

  "All right?" Mooney asked, opening one eye.

  "Yes," Harry said with elaborate indifference. "Doris is taking care of it." He sat on the edge of the desk, took out his gold cigarette case and lit a cigarette.

  Mooney's eyes snapped open.

  "Hey!" he exclaimed, sitting up so violently he nearly upset his chair. "That's gold! Where the heck did you get that from?"

  Harry put the case back into his hip pocket

  "Oh, a present," he said airily.

  Mooney blinked at him, then relaxed back in his chair.

  "Did she give it to you?"

  "If you must know; she did."

  "And very nice too." Mooney produced his gold watch and dangled it on its chain. "A girl once gave this to me. Must be thirty years ago." He examined the watch affectionately. "Rum animals — women. Not many of them give presents, but when they do, they're usually good ones. Look after that, kid. It'll be your turn to pawn it when we run out of money. It's time my watch had a rest."

  "I'll never pawn it," Harry declared sharply.

  "Never's a long time," Mooney returned, settling down and closing his eyes. "I hope this portrait stunt works. Business is getting lousier every minute. Those two punks don't bring in a quarter of what they should. I shouldn't be surprised if they spent most of the day in a pub."

  "Well, why don't you go out and check on them? Tom works in Oxford Street and Joe in the Strand. It wouldn't take you long."

  "What — me?" Mooney said, horrified.

  chapter seventeen

  While Clair was changing in the partitioned off cubicle, Mooney came into the studio where Harry was making last-minute adjustments to the lights.

  "Now, she's what I call a remarkable girl," he said, propping himself up against the doorway.

  "What she sees in a young hobble-de-hoy like you defeats me." He shook his head, genuinely puzzled. "I think I've made an impression on her," he went on as Harry took no notice of him. "You mightn't believe it, but when I was your age, girls flocked round me. I had a way with me. Call it technique if you like. Why, damn it, I believe I could cut you out even now if I tried."

  "Then you'd better not," Harry said, grinning. He stood up and dusted his trouser knees. "Still, I'm pleased you approve. I think she's coming now."

  Clair entered the studio, swinging her big picture hat and smiling.

  "Will I do?" she asked, posing for the two men.

  "You look lovely," Harry said enthusiastically, while Mooney blew her a kiss. "Will you sit here?"

  He looked at Mooney. "Did you say you were going to keep an eye on the shop?"

  "That's right," Mooney said bitterly. "Kick an old man around." He gave Clair a sly wink. "If you ever feel in need of a change my dear, call on me. Old wine is reputed to be better and more satisfying than young."

  Clair giggled.

  "I'll remember," she said, and when he had gone, she went on, "He's quite a pet, isn't he? But I bet he doesn't do much work."

  "He doesn't," Harry said, leading her to the stool tinder the lights. "Now, I'll leave this to you. You've much more experience than I have. Let's try a lot of poses. I have a camera full of film, and we'll run off the lot. Now, what do you suggest?"

  She sat down and folded her hands in her lap.

  "Oh, I'll leave it to you," she said, and he had a sudden idea she was nervous. "You know what you want. I always do as I'm told."

  "I bet you don't," Harry said, smiling. He stepped away from her and looked at her critically. It was extraordinary, but she looked both awkward and camera conscious, just like any young girl about to be photographed. "Relax, darling," he went on. "You're actually looking shy."

  "Am I?" She didn't seem to like this, and her eyes shifted away from him.

  "Look over my shoulder," he said, surprised he should have to tell her what to do. The effect was strained and unnatural. A prickle of apprehension ran up his spine as he looked at her. What was the matter with her? he wondered, puzzled. "Well, I'll try that," he went on, hoping that when he began work she might catch his mood and relax. He released the shutter and wound on the film. "Now let's have one with your hat on. Imagine you're coming up the road."

  "How do I do that, for goodness' sake?" she asked, putting on her hat and inspecting herself in the mirror.

  "Look expectant, darling. You know the kind of thing."

  "Like this?"

  "Oh, no," Harry thought, "not like that at all."

  "Not bad," he said, worried now. "But don't look quite so happy."

  "If I was expecting you I would look happy," she returned, and her voice sounded cross.

  "Yes, I suppose so. But I wanted to get the idea of uncertainty. You're hoping to see me, but you're not sure I'm coming."

  She contorted her features and peered at the opposite wall as if she was short-sighted.

  "How's this?"

  "Yes, that'll do," Harry said, his heart sinking. "I'll take that Hold it."

  And so it went on. Harry tried every pose he could think of without success, and it gradually began to dawn on him that she had never posed before in her life. She had every amateur trick without one professional mannerism. She was camera-conscious, awkward, and her attempts to follow his instructions were embarrassing.

  In the past, Harry had attended a school of photography and had photographed professional models.

  He knew something about the art of posing. It was obvious that Clair had no talent in this direction, and the discovery frightened him.

  "I say, darling, will you be much longer?" she asked, plaintively. "These lights are giving me a headache."

  "Let's have a rest," Harry said, his face shiny with perspiration. He turned off the arc lights and came over to offer her a cigarette.

  "But surely you have taken enough by now?" she asked, and he caught an impatient note in her voice. "It's after six and I've a date at seven-thirty."

  "Oh. Aren't I seeing you tonight?"

  She patted his hand.

  "Not tonight, Harry. I promised a girlfriend dinner at the flat. I'd ask you along too, only she's a frightful bore, and besides, she wants to gossip."

  "All right," Harry said, feeling depressed and worried. "How about tomorrow night?"

  "Of course. I'll tell you what we'll do. Come round about six, and if it's fine we'll drive out to Richmond and look at the river. Would you like that?"

  "Yes," Harry said, his mind in a whirl. "If she wasn't a model, then what was she?" he asked himself. "How in the world did she manage to live on such a scale unless —"

  A tap sounded on the door and Mooney came in. Harry was so worried he welcomed the diversion.

  "That copper's outside," Mooney said, closing the door. "He wants a word with you. I told him you were busy, but he says he'll wait'

  "What does he want?" Harry said, frowning. "Well, I suppose I'd better see him. Will you excuse me, Clair?"

  Looking at her he was startled to see she had lost colour and had risen to her feet, her eyes alarmed.

  "Don't let him know I'm here," she said in a whisper. "I don't want to meet him."

  She was so obviously perturbed that both Harry and Mooney stared at her in surprise.

  "It's all right," Harry said, feeling it was far from all right "He'll be gone by the time you've changed." He stubbed out his cigarette, forced a smile and with a growing feeling of uneasiness, went into the office. Mooney followed him.

  Inspector Parkins, still wearing his baggy tweed suit, was examining the big frame o
f street photographs.

  "Hallo, Mr. Ricks," he said, glancing round. "These are interesting. It might pay me to look in from time to time and go through your pictures. I've spotted a couple of old customers just in this little lot."

  "You wanted me?" Harry said. "I'm rather busy, Inspector. Is it important?"

  Parkins lifted his busy eyebrows. There was a bland look in his eyes that Harry didn't like.

  "Well, no, it's not important. I was passing so I looked in. You haven't seen our tow-headed friend again?"

  "If I had I should have told you," Harry said shortly. He was anxious to be rid of the inspector.

  "Yes, I suppose you would." Parkins seemed in no hurry to go. "By the way, when we went along to the Red Circle cafe the other night, there was a fella outside with a big American car. He was joined by four drunken tarts if you remember."

  Harry went scarlet.

  "They weren't tarts!" he said angrily, and then caught himself up. "At least, they didn't look like that to me."

  Parkins eyed his angry flushed face with mild interest.

  "Didn't they? Well, you surprise me." He felt in his pockets and took out a carton of cigarettes. He opened it, found it empty and tossed it in the near-by wastepaper basket. "I thought they were tarts. They behaved like tarts, but maybe I was mistaken. Even a police officer makes a mistake now and then," and he laughed. "You wouldn't have a cigarette on you, would you?"

  Impatiently Harry took out his gold case, opened it and offered it. Parkins took the case out of his hand, and as he selected a cigarette with deliberate care, he said, "Was that fella with the car Brady?"

  Harry felt himself change colour.

  "I don't think so. I — I really didn't notice."

  "Didn't you? That's a pity. I was under the impression he might have been Brady." Parkins closed the case and turned it over in his hand while he examined it with a look of bland interest. "Nice case this. New?"

  "Yes," Harry said shortly, and held out his hand for it

  "Where did you get it from?"

  "That's not your business," Harry said, angrily. "May I have it, please?"

  Parkins opened the case and read the inscription.

  "What's this girl's other name?"

  "Now, look here," Harry exploded, "this has gone far enough. Please give it to me."

  "So you think it's gone far enough?" Parkins said and smiled. "Well, so do I. This case was stolen last week. Did you know that?"

  "Stolen?" Harry said, and suddenly felt sick. "It wasn't! You — you're making a mistake."

  "Oh, no I'm not," Parkins said. "We have a complete description of it, even down to the small scratch on the back. A young gentleman up from the country ran into a nice-looking girl in Piccadilly a few nights ago. He bought her some drinks, and thought he was set for a riotous evening, but she disappeared and his cigarette case went with her." He dropped the case into his pocket "Unlike many young men he did the sensible thing. He came to me. I have a description of the girl, and I'm looking for her." He suddenly pointed a finger at Harry. "She slipped the case to you, didn't she?"

  "I don't know what you mean!" Harry said, the truth dawning on him. Here then was the explanation. His first suspicions were correct. She was working with this gang! The discovery horrified him, but even now, he was determined to protect her if he could.

  "Oh, yes, you do," Parkins said, suddenly losing his bland air. "I've been watching you ever since you lied about Brady. We're on to him, too. He's another of them. You're sleeping with this woman, aren't you? You're the fella she passes the stuff to. We know all about you, Ricks. She's keeping you, too."

  "That's a damned lie!" Clair said from the doorway. She came into the office like a furious little hurricane, pushed Harry aside and faced Parkins. "You keep your dirty mouth shut! I took the case! I gave it to him as a present! He didn't know it was stolen! He doesn't know anything about anything! Leave him out of this! Do you hear? Leave him out of this!"

  chapter eighteen

  The clock hands on the dashboard of the car pointed to five minutes to eight. Rain ran down the windscreen, and the ancient wiper creaked to and fro, pushing the stream of water aside, keeping clear a small arch through which Harry could see the entrance to the prison.

  It was a cold, bleak morning, and sodden grey clouds moved sluggishly in the chilly wind.

  Harry smoked uneasily, resting his hands on the driving wheel, his eyes intent on the tall, wrought— iron gates that had separated him from Clair for the past nine months. She was due out at eight o'clock.

  During those long months while she had been serving her sentence, Harry had neither seen nor heard from her.

  After she had been sentenced he had spoken to her for a few minutes. Parkins had beckoned to him, and had led him along a passage tiled in white, and which had reminded Harry of the entrance to a public convenience. Clair was in a cell, waiting to be taken to the prison at Aylesbury. She had been quiet and cold and as hard as granite. It had been like saying good-bye to a stranger.

  "Don't ever come to see me," she said, standing away from him and looking straight at him, "and don't ever write. I don't want to be reminded of you. I won't see you if you come. I won't read your letters if you write."

  "All right," Harry said, "but I won't forget you, Clair."

  She had given a sneering little smile when he said that.

  "You'll forget all right," she had said.

  Then a uniformed policewoman had come in. Clair had given Harry one long, searching look as if she wanted to impress his face on her mind, then she had gone with the policewoman, her head up and her mouth set.

  He didn't write to her or visit her because he knew she had meant what she had said, but she remained as alive in his mind as she had been when he held her in his arms for the first time.

  Parkins had said she had been lucky to have got off with a year. She had told them nothing about the gang, admitted she had been stealing for over a year, but refused to incriminate anyone else. She had cleared Harry of suspicion, and since she had been in prison no other cases of pickpocketing had been reported. The gang was lying low.

  To Parkins's angry disappointment there was no evidence to connect Robert Brady with Clair. She admitted he was a friend of hers, but denied he was a member of the gang. Brady had slipped away like a ghost at the first sign of trouble. Parkins told Harry he had left the country and was probably in America.

  "I doubt if he'll show his nose in London for some time," Parkins had said. "Pity; I would have liked to have hooked him."

  And the tow-headed chap also disappeared.

  While Clair was waiting trial Harry had been desperately busy trying to raise money for her defence. She had told him to sell everything she possessed, but he kept some of her clothes and stored them in his room. The car was sold; so was the radiogram and the cocktail cabinet. Her jewellery had been taken by the police and returned to its various owners. There was very little left after they found her guilty: some clothes, a few books, a fountain pen and a handbag. Harry kept these things in his room.

  "I'm going to make a home for her," he told Mooney. "I have nine months to make money in, and I'm going to make it."

  But the partnership didn't succeed. It was as Harry had suspected. The people of Soho had better things to do with their money than spend it on a photograph.

  The enormous enlargement of Alf Mooney failed to attract customers.

  "With that face," Mooney said gloomily, "you're driving custom away."

  But Harry knew it was a fine study. He knew it proclaimed him as an outstanding photographer, and he was reluctant to take it out of the window. He was back on his beat now, taking photographs in the street. Tom and Joe had gone. Doris had obstinately refused to go, accepting half-wages until they had weathered the depression. Mooney was suicidal, and kept telling Harry to give up and close the shop.

  Then came the lucky break that Harry had been praying for. He happened to be in the shop with Mooney one wet af
ternoon, standing in the doorway, staring up at the lead-coloured skies and wondering when he would be able to get out on the job, when he noticed a well-dressed man pause to look at Mooney's portrait.

  Harry regarded the man enviously. He was immaculately dressed, dark and good looking. His age might have been forty or even fifty. There was an air of confidence about him that told of success, riches and good living. He studied the photograph for some minutes, and then looking up, caught Harry's anxious eyes.

  "Who did that?" he asked.

  "I did," Harry said.

  "Have you any more like it?"

  "I'm afraid I haven't. I've only just started that kind of work."

  "Would you care to take some portraits for me?" the man asked, and took from his wallet a card.

  "You may have heard of me if you are at all interested in the theatre."

  Harry took the card. Allan Simpson! The best-known and most successful theatrical producer in London! He felt himself turn hot, then cold with excitement.

  "Why, yes, Mr. Simpson. Of course I would."

  "I'll tell you what we'll do," Simpson said. "Come up to the Regent Theatre tomorrow afternoon with your kit, and we'll try some shots. If you do as well as this we might get together. Would you care to do that?"

  That was five months ago, and now Harry worked exclusively for Simpson at a salary of twenty-five pounds a week. It was unbelievable, of course. Even now, as Harry sat in the shabby little Morris he had bought second-hand, he couldn't believe his good fortune. The work wasn't arduous. He was responsible for taking all the stills to dress the outside of the theatre, and all the portraits for publicity purposes. When a new show was being produced he was kept busy, but once it was running he had more time on his hands than he cared about. Simpson had made him sign a contract to do no other work except the work Simpson wanted him to do.